Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

By night an atheist half-believes in God.

A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Wonder is involuntary praise.